


Back to Middle-earth month 2012

by Nath



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Other, potential non-con reference - not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nath/pseuds/Nath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the various drabbles and short stories I wrote for B2MEM 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midsummer, 3019

Drabble series written for the ‘textures’ prompts for B2MEM 2012

###### Texture: splintery

_It will need to be repaired_. Arwen touched the splintery edge of the deep gouge on her clothes chest. It must have happened either during the unpacking of their baggage or somewhere along the journey from Imladris. At least the damage was only to the wood, and the metal bands, with their detailed scrollwork, were intact.   
  
She would see to it the next time it caught her attention. Careful not to snag her sleeve on the wood, and casting a last look at the pale green dress inside the chest, she lowered the lid. Already, her thoughts moved ahead. _Tomorrow_...

###### Texture: bumpy

_Why does the time pass so slowly? Just let it be noon now._

She’d rather have paced to quell her impatience, but for the sake of outward composure, she settled for counting the flowers she once embroidered on the sleeves of her dress. She knew every stitch, and every unevenness and every small bump her fingers slid over was familiar.

She nearly jumped out of her chair when Galadriel sat down next to her. She’d forgotten her grandmother was waiting with her until it was time to go to where Aragorn also waited – _Is he as impatient as I am?_

###### Texture:  fuzzy (also Smells: Pipeweed)

“You smell of pipeweed,” Arwen observed in a mock-prim tone as she slowly ran her fingers over the fuzzy hairs at the back of Aragorn’s head, giggling as he closed his eyes in pleasure.  “Hmmmm… If I do that again, will you start purring?”

In reply he pulled her even closer, his hands moving to tip her head upwards for a kiss. “Try me,” he murmured, but stopped suddenly, looking worried. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind about what?”

“The pipeweed smell?”

“No silly, it is part of you,” she laughed. “At least, as long as you don’t smoke inside.”

###### Texture: smooth

They had kissed before, but never like this. Those times had been the promise, now was the reality.

“I could go on kissing you all night,” he said, his voice soft and husky.

She caressed the pale smooth skin on the inside of his arm. “Truly?” she asked.

“Truly,” he replied.

“Truly? Just kiss me? I thought…” And if her laugh just then sounded nervous as much as bold, no matter. There were just the two of them here, and she could feel the tension in him also. Neither of them was exactly _afraid_ , but it still felt almost unreal.

###### Texture: patterned

No one wore clothes by the pools where people swam or in the bath house, and as a healer’s daughter and a healer in her own right it would have been difficult for her _not_ to know what a naked man looked like. It _did_ make a difference whether the man in question was a brother in need of having a wound stitched or her husband on the night they had both awaited for so long.

Answering the unspoken question in Aragorn’s eyes, her own robe, its patterned folds pooling around her feet, was quickly discarded, and the quicker forgotten.

###### Texture: coarse

Her skin was smooth and pale in the light of a nearly full Moon, and her unbound hair flowed over his hands like a black river, her head on his shoulder. The sight and touch of her naked beside him...

“Vanimelda,” he sighed.

Her hand moved slowly across his chest – how coarse his skin must feel to her, hairy and with scars old and not so old – and she looked up at him. He knew by the longing in her glance, and her quick breath, that – _somehow_ , despite his flaws – he was as desirable to her as she to him.

###### Texture: silken

He woke up beside a strange, yet familiar presence. One moment of disorientation, and then… _Not a dream._

For fear of waking her, he dared not stir; instead, like a man thirsting, he drank in the sight of her. Her hair fell over her shoulder like heavy silk; the moonlight brushed lightly over her half-upturned face; her lashes were pools of ink.

Yet, fair as this sight of her was, it only suggested her keen glance, the sweetness of her smile, her wisdom, and her quicksilver wit. _Dare I wake her_? he wondered as he drifted off to sleep again.

###### Texture: papery

She wanted to wake him, but the sun had not risen yet, and the sky had barely begun to pale. She drew aside a stray tendril of hair, but stopped when he stirred, and silently made her way to the balcony.

Aragorn merely observed, “Elrond’s daughter in truth,” when he found her reading an hour or so later.

She looked briefly guilty, then laughed, and said, “I didn’t know you had kept this.”

When he saw the book, it was his turn for embarrassment. Inside its thin pages lay a perfectly preserved dried elanor flower, its papery petals carefully arranged.


	2. Midsummer, 3019

~-~

 _Erendis surrounds herself with women to spite one_ _man_. Inzil and the others in her house were only pawns in the war between her lady and the king. She doubted that Erendis realised, or cared, that for some of her women, the absence of men was no hardship or sacrifice, and certainly not an act in her war; that they sought each other’s embrace out of love, not out of necessity.

 _Erendis embraces none though_ , Inzil knew. When loneliness overcame her, she looked upon Erendis and wondered if her lady even understood anymore that anyone _did_ love, or loved _her_.

(prompts used: Economy: war, Relationship: same-sex relationship)

~-~

Building a road was hard work, Brandir considered, but it paid pretty well. More so here in Endor, since few Númenoreans wanted to spend several years away from the island, and the locals were an indifferent labour force at best.

Right now, he was glad to be back in Vinyalondë and enjoy the comforts of civilization. Out here those comforts amounted to little more than a clean and soft bed and a decent meal, not one burned beyond hope by the camp cook. Even so…

“Innkeeper, a room for tonight, and a bowl of that onion soup I can smell!”

(prompts used: Economy: infrastructure, Smells: onions)

~-~

**Country boys are easy**

It is time she gives serious thought to settling down, Hareth thinks, even if she doesn’t quite want to yet. She has nearly saved enough to buy the haberdashery shop in Armenelos she has her eye on, but she’ll need another season or two for that. Right now she would have to find a partner for the remainder, and she doesn’t want to be indebted to anyone.

She still likes travelling too much, even if it’s becoming more of a chore of late; she feels the sea fog in her bones like she never used to. With the next village coming into view, she puts aside her dreams; no need to make up her mind for at least another year. She mentally goes through the contents of her pack. It’s a useful trick to be able to find the right buttons or ribbons without hesitation, even before adding the usual spiel about how special this item is, or how well it goes with a customer’s hair or eyes.

Unlike the stories she’s heard of Endor, Númenor is safe for a woman to travel by herself, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t an unusual enough sight to attract attention in villages like this. Larger towns are better for being left alone, but she sells more in agricultural backwaters.

Inside the village, she quickly finds the inn and gets a room for a week. After putting away her baggage, she comes down to the common room and sits down with a pint of cider after ordering her meal. Years of travelling have taught her to hold her drink, and to enjoy it. She knows what will come next, and sure enough one of the locals comes over to sit down next to her.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

 _Is that your best attempt?_ she thinks scornfully. He’s not bad-looking, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s allowed herself to be seduced by a pleasant smile and a strong body. Perhaps not this time, though; there’s something in his voice that makes her wonder how strong the lock on her room’s door is.

Besides, if she went with this bumpkin, it would be all over the village by tomorrow, and her chances of selling anything to the local women ruined.

The bumpkin sits down, ignoring her silence. “What brings a woman travelling alone this far from the city?”

“I’m a merchant,” she answers curtly. It won’t hurt to advertise her reason for coming here; she notices that several people are attempting to listen in on them.

“An unusual occupation for a woman,” he observes.

“Is that so?” she retorts.

“What is it you sell anyway?” His implication is obvious, and best ignored.

“Buttons and ribbons, and sewing supplies,” she replies. “I am sure your lady wife will be interested in my wares.” It may be enough to cut short his interest, and sure enough, after some attempts at small talk, he goes back to sit with his fellows.

Hareth finishes her pint, and after eating a rather indifferent portion of shepherd’s pie, she leaves the common room for an early night

Upstairs, as she fumbles for the key of her room, suddenly she is grabbed from behind, and a hand is put over her mouth before she can scream.

“A sample of your _wares_ wouldn’t go amiss,” the bumpkin whispers in her ear, but before he can do more than grope her, she hears footsteps coming up the stair. The bumpkin tightens the hand over her mouth, but he is distracted and Hareth takes the opportunity to bite down on his finger.

“Hey!” A shout as her assailant screams, and the innkeeper comes running up with a lantern and a cudgel in his other hand. Hareth’s assailant shoves her against the innkeeper to make his escape.

“Don’t worry, I have a few lads waiting downstairs,” her rescuer says. “Did he harm you?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “But I don’t know what would…”

“Don’t think about it,” he says. “I’ll send my wife up to see if there’s anything you need, and we’ll deal with that clod Galadir in the morning.”

Later, after the innkeeper’s wife has been, she thinks that it is _definitely_ time to settle down. Perhaps she will look for a loan or a partner for that shop after all.

(prompts used: Economy: agriculture, travelling merchants, Relationship: seduction, intimacy, fear of commitment)

~-~

Many had sailed after Ost-in-Edhil fell, and Gil-Galad doubted those who remained now had the numbers to resist Sauron, even if people felt safe enough again to have children. Among the Sindar there were even remarriages.  
  
The destruction of the forests of Minhiriath and the Enedwaith would not be undone so soon, and that had not been done by the Enemy, but by their allies of Númenor. The land had dried out, and trees would not grow again without careful management. The rain that once fell on Minhiriath fell upon the hills of Dunland, or as snow in the Hithaeglir.

(prompts used: Economy: climatic change, Relationship: remarriage)

~-~

 _We shouldn’t have come here_. His wife’s angry words stick in Hallan’s mind. He shakes his head. She knows as well as he does that they are doing better in Pelargir than in Númenor. They are fairly well off; a good smith is in demand anywhere, and he puts a good roof over their heads.  
  
But Fíriel complains that merchants charge exorbitantly for something as commonplace as the fruit of the _yavannamírë_ , not realising that here it is scarce. He has happily traded his breakfast slices of _yavannamírë_ for oranges, which are abundant and cheap, and taste almost as good. ****

(prompts used: Economy: scarcity, Smells: onions)

~-~

 _Good_ _, the place looks busy_ , Azrûphel thought as she entered Eldalondë. The streets were more crowded than they had been for at least a year, even on market day. She understood why the King had decreed that all known Elf-friends should move east to the area around Rómenna, but it did not make for good trade, even if there had been new people moving in from Armenelos as well. Too many of the newcomers acted as if anyone who had lived here longer than they had were Elf-friends, and suspicion did not make for good trade either.

Azrûphel glanced up at the town’s clock tower. _Early enough for a good place in the market, at least if Narâk is in a good mood._  Yet even if he was, the market master had his favourites, and she was not one of them. Azrûphel wished she had good evidence that he was an Elf-friend; she had her suspicions, but not enough to bring charges on. _Not like Imrazôr_ … Perhaps it had been that they had been childhood sweethearts, and that had made him careless about his leanings. Whatever had made him act so recklessly, Azrûphel was a loyal subject of her King; she could not ignore it when Imrazôr had brazenly admitted in front of her that he had met with Elves who still came to the island in secret.

He had not been so bold when the King’s men came to his house to deliver the decree of removal to Rómenna, begging to be allowed to remain here in his home, that the charges against him were lies, that he was as loyal as they. Azrûphel scowled as she remembered how quickly he had changed his tone when they said that they could not protect him from the anger of the villagers and that he could either leave or be burned out of hearth and home. Imrazôr knew well enough that the King’s men would make certain that the mob came if he didn’t go – Azrûphel knew it too, and wasn’t sure she approved of such heavy-handed threats. She had been glad to see that Imrazôr and his family safely left their village before nightfall; he might be as good as a traitor, she had loved him once, and she did not bear his family malice either.

(prompts used: Economy: market day, Relationship: childhood sweethearts )

~-~

“It’s the perfect time to buy property out here, I tell you! Okay, the Crown will snap up the greater estates abandoned by Elf-friends, but there’s still good deals to be had if you keep an eye out. I know just the thing for you too; a nice little townhouse in Eldalondë. It needs a bit of work on the top floor and the garden, but it’s just perfect for a young family to grow into. Nice part of town, quiet, but close to the market. And I can offer you a very nice price as well, just for you.”

(prompts used: Economy: real estate)


	3. Causes of death

Limericks for the Causes of death bingo card (including a few prompts that weren't called):

 **Infection**  
A brave lad from Waymeet  
Shaved off all the hair from his feet  
Cut, he died of infection  
A most unexpected reaction  
Although his toes looked very neat

 _Arrow  
_ Arathorn took an arrow to the eye  
Not something you want to try  
It stings when you do it  
He said, I have to admit  
A most unpleasant way to die __

 **Torture**  
An Elf held in his own tower  
Was captured by greater power  
Disguise he could not maintain  
He died in terrible pain  
And in a mood rather sour

 **Poison**  
A noble lord in Armenelos  
Was quite at a loss  
For his darling wife  
Had cut short his life  
Feeding him mushroom sauce

 **Self-sacrifice**  
An Elf of Gondolin ran into trouble  
When he hit a Balrog on the schnozzle  
He died in self-sacrifice  
Or maybe slipped on some ice  
An ignominious end to their quarrel

 **Hypothermia**  
A happy young Elf out of Tirion  
Didn't stay so for very long  
Against all good advice  
He attempted the Grinding Ice  
But then, the Noldor always were headstrong

 _Burning_  
There was an old Steward of Gondor  
Who'd  had enough of the Ringwar  
He said, upon lighting his pyre  
One thing must be said for fire  
You're guaranteed well done ...  for

 **Head injury**  
Fingon, High King of the Noldor  
Faced a Balrog much bolder  
His head cloven in twain  
He was thoroughly slain  
And would grow no older

 **Exhaustion**  
An Orc captain out of Isengard  
Ordered to run his vanguard  
Groaning and gasping for breath  
They ran to their death  
For the pace he set was too hard

 **Falling**  
Ancalagon the Black was cast from the sky  
No need to wonder why  
Eärendil explained afterward  
It's all above board  
These dragons leave me no room to fly

 **Starvation**  
A fat hobbit from Overhill  
once used to eat his fill  
In the Lockholes he was found  
No longer very round  
Starvation wasn't such a thrill

 **Shock**  
There once was an elf-maid fair and bold  
Her story has never yet been told  
She tragically died of shock  
Dancing among the hemlock  
Her lover's hands were ice-cold

A/N: Thank you to everybody who offered suggestions whenever I rhymed myself into a corner...


	4. Tales of the North

Northern Dúnedain-themed drabbles and vignettes ****

**Smells: Meat  
Rangers of the North: Fornost**

"Meat. Roasted meat."

"Will you stop that? We're still over a day away from Fornost, and there will be nothing hot to eat until then."

"No! I meant I… Can't you smell that?"

"Yes. You're right. Let's go take a look."

 _Friend or foe,_ I wonder. We follow behind the captain.

A gesture, little more than a nod, and I move up beside him. The source of the smell...

Bows are drawn, arrows nocked and loosed.

I follow the captain down into the dell. As I see what the Orcs were roasting, I lose any appetite I might have had.

**Rangers of the North: Fell Winter**

"We will send what we can," Elrond told Arathorn, "It will be very little."

"I wasn't asking for ourselves," the Chieftain's Heir said, "But for the survivors of the floods at Tharbad. In the Angle we may recover from the Fell Winter. Tharbad is as good as gone after the meltwater washed through the town."

Elrond was already working on the logistics of sending what Imladris could spare down to the stricken town. Barges? No, the Bruinen was still too wild, from those same meltwaters. Yet, though it was little enough that could be spared, he _would_ find a way.

**Rangers of the North: Eriador  
Weapons and warfare: cavalry  
Rangers of the North: protectors  
Rangers of the North: Arador**

"My company need horses," yet another captain had argued that morning before the Council. And yet again, the answer had been 'no.'

 _If wishes were horses, we'd all ride_ , Arador thought. During the Fell Winter, the Dúnedain had eaten most of their horses, and stocks only recovered slowly. Foals needed time to grow and be trained. It would be another ten years at least before the Rangers would have any cavalry worth the name again to support them in their duty as protectors of Eriador.

Still, Arador considered, perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed the captain with a snapped "Then walk!".

**Rangers of the North: Gilraen  
Weapons: archery  
Relationships: intimacy**

Trying to ignore that there were people watching, Gilraen raised and tensed the bow she had borrowed from the armoury. She had come to the Rivendell archery range this morning out of some sense that she ought to practice, just as she had done at home – not that she had ever been a particularly good archer. She wasn't terrible either: more of her arrows had always hit the target than not.

As she adjusted her aim, she had to blink against tears welling up, and with a sigh of frustration she lowered the bow again.

Not all that long ago, she had stood on the range in Caras Dirnen to practice, and Arathorn, who had secretly been watching, suddenly stepped up to correct her stance. How she remembered the feel of his arms and the warmth of his body against her... Needless to say that the shot, once she had remembered to make it, had not even come close to the target, and the practice session had ended abruptly with the two of them heading for the privacy of home.

She bit back a curse she would have washed Estel's mouth out with soap for, and raised the bow again. There was no point in dwelling on the past; it was g… _he_ was gone. Much as she missed their intimacy, she missed Arathorn more than she missed mere bedsport, as pleasant as that had been between them.

Slowly, deliberately, she drew back the string until her arms hurt and she could only just about hold the bow steady. _This_ was what the armourer considered a light bow? Then again, to an Elf it probably was, and she adjusted her opinion of the sometimes impossibly-ethereal looking Elven women in Elrond's house. As Arathorn had shown her, she released the arrow as she exhaled. _Yes! The heart of the target_.

She shot a few more times, hitting at least the second ring every time.

A bit later, as she was gathering her arrows to return them to the armoury, Elrohir, who had been among the others watching, came up to her. She wondered what he wanted to say. Though she had known them for a long time, both he and his brother had barely spoken to her after they had brought her and Estel here. It did not take much to work out that they felt responsible for Arathorn's death, but from what she had heard from one of the few Dúnedain survivors, the Orc ambush had been incredibly well set up, and the twins had no cause to feel guilty.

"You shoot well," Elrohir said, barely meeting her gaze.

"Arathorn taught me," she answered. He looked away and she added, sounding almost exasperated, "Elrohir, look at me," then as he did, "I do not hold you to blame."

He only nodded, but at least he did not look away again. It was not much, but it was a beginning, she considered. If she was to live her for a long time, it would be much better if Elrohir and his brother did not flinch every time they saw her.

**Rangers of the North: The Grey Company**

As ceremonies went, it was not much, Halladan thought as the newest member of the Grey Company grasped his captain's hand and stood up after being sworn in. Still, he would not complain about being here to see it. Had that warg's bite gone a bit deeper, he would have been dead; had he avoided those teeth altogether, he would have been on patrol. No matter; he was alive and he was here, and it was not every day that a man witnessed his son joining the Grey Company.

"Congratulations," he said.

"Thank you, father." Halbarad's smile said it all.

**_Lakeside retreat_ **

**Languages: learning a language  
Rangers of the North: Annúminas  
Languages: Taliska  
Weapons: guerilla warfare  
Languages: Rohirric**

"Names are funny things," Daeron mused as the small group gathered around the campfire. They had arrived at Annúminas earlier that day, and were now sitting overlooking the lake in what had once been someone's garden, glad to have reached the relative safety of the ancient city.

"How's that?" Halbarad asked.

"Many people are named after lords or heroes of old, or their name has a meaning, or both; and that's all well and good until you consider a name that _means_ something and it stops making sense. Look at Tavor here," Daeron answered. "I have certainly never seen him bore holes in tree trunks with his beak."

"So," Tavor responded immediately, "You're called Daeron, yet you sing like a troll."

Halbarad laughed as Daeron made a disgusted noise; his brother-in-law had walked into his own trap eyes open.

"And Vardamir's named after a king of Númenor," Beleg now said, "I'm called after an Elven archer, and with Imlach, Malach, Marach, and Baran we've got a good collection of Edain names."

"You're forgetting Wulfmaer with his Rohirric name," Malach interrupted him.

"What does Wulfmaer mean anyway?" Imlach called out.

"Famous wolf," Elladan supplied.

"And of course Wulfmaer," Beleg went on, unperturbed by the interruption. Then he turned to Halbarad, a wicked gleam in his eyes, "One thing I'm wondering about, Captain, just what is that 'tall tower' you're named after?"

Halbarad merely assumed a long-suffering expression as several Rangers sniggered. The jest was scarcely new and best ignored.

"Actually, your name is not Sindarin, but Taliska," Elladan said, coming to his rescue.

Halbarad cast a surprised glance at the half-Elf. "Taliska? I never knew that."

"What's Taliska?" Beleg asked, with several of the others nodding in agreement at the question.

"Of old, the language of the Third House of the Edain," Elrohir now said.

"And you know it?" Beleg asked.

"As much as anyone can," Elrohir said. "It has not been spoken since the early days of Númenor."

"Long-dead languages," Imlach scoffed, "What's the point of learning them?"

"More than you would think," Elladan said. "No one may speak Taliska anymore, but it is related to Dunlendish, so I found it slightly easier to learn that because I had already learned Taliska."

"I suppose so," Imlach said, "But in any language there are still several hundred Orcs sitting in the Hills of Evendim."

"Thank you for reminding us," Beleg jumped in, "I'm sure we would have forgotten about them otherwise."

"I only need one volunteer for the middle watch." As Halbarad had expected, that was enough to stop both Beleg and Imlach. "Anyway, we need reinforcements from Círdan and Fornost before we can dislodge the Orcs. Elrohir, if you and your brother will go to the Havens, I'll send someone to Fornost in the morning as well."

"And we just sit here?" Imlach sounded more than a bit irritated.

"We will not," Halbarad said. "We cannot take the camp with twenty men, but we can keep them busy."

====

A/N

Tavor (S.): woodpecker

I've gone with the interpretation that Taliska is the language of the House of Haleth, not the Folk of Bëor (quoting [Ardalambion](http://folk.uib.no/hnohf/mannish.htm)): "In this later linguistic conception, _Nóm_ and _Nómin_ would be Bëorian words, but all the other words ( _bor_ and _talbor_ and all the _hal_ -based words) are words of the Woodmen of Brethil, so they would be Halethian. I don't know what would happen to the name "Taliska" itself under this later situation."

**_Good hands_ **

**Horror: Thuringwethil and other vampires  
Horror: Spiders, flies, and maggots**

"Bed and board?" the farmer asks.

Aragorn nods. It's a fair enough price for a day's work and much the same in Harad as in Eriador, he has found. Farmers are always glad of an extra hand with their chores, and they usually can spare a bite to eat and a place to sleep – even if it's only a bed of straw in a shed. Coin, however, they are often short enough of that they cannot afford to pay wages in exchange for work. And wanderers like him are glad of good food and somewhere dry to sleep, Aragorn acknowledges.  

"Do you know anything about goats?" the man asks.

"Enough," he replies. Over the years he has done more jobs around farms than he cares to think about.

~

There is a herd of about two hundred goats penned up in a fenced field. They will check them for maggots, and clean any infestations they find. At first Aragorn holds the goat while the farmer cleans out the wounds and applies a salve. All that the farmer says to note Aragorn's steady handling of the beasts is "You have good hands," but after that they take turns holding the goats and cleaning the wounds.

The goats are mostly white with brown and black splotches. They're small, lean, and short-haired; they are also inquisitive and nibble at everything that comes in front of them. The work is not heavy, even in the dusty heat, and there's a slightly hypnotic quality to its repetitiveness.

"Are you from up north?" the farmer asks when they take a break.

"Originally," Aragorn answers, "But lately I've been in the east." The question no longer startles him as it did the first time. He's been in Harad for close to a year now, and to these people even Umbar is far to the north – further than any of them are likely to travel. People mostly take him for an Umbarite; he does have the colouring after all.

"East, huh? I thought I heard something like that in your speech," the farmer says, but does not inquire further.

Aragorn smiles as he fends off an overfriendly kid nibbling on his shirt. He's been cultivating a Khand accent in what passes for Westron here, and so far, the deception hasn't failed him. He is glad that Elrond had him study Adûnaic as a boy; there are many words still used here that have disappeared in Eriador, and they are pronounced much closer to what Elrond had told him of Adûnaic pronunciation.

~

It's already late in the afternoon when Aragorn spots something odd on one nanny goat. At first it looks like another maggot site, but the wound is too small and neat-edged for that. He looks closer, thinking some other kind of parasite may have burrowed in.

"What is it?" the farmer asks.

"Look at this," Aragorn says, pointing out the wound.

The farmer takes a closer look as well, then peers at the sky and scowls. "Bats," he says, and adds, "Foul little bloodsuckers."

"Vampires?" Aragorn asks, an incongruous image of a man-sized bat swooping down to inflict these tiny bites flitting through his mind. "How big are they?"

"Nasty beasts, but no bigger than an ordinary fruitbat. They feed by sucking blood from animals, and if they can get at them, people as well," the farmer explains. "Count yourself lucky you don't have them up north. Saw someone die from a bite once."

Not like Thuringwethil at all then for size, which is a relief, but… "Really? From a wound like this?" He knows even the smallest wound can kill, but he wants to know more.

"Doesn't happen often, but this man, after he was bitten he got feverish and confused. Couldn't even swallow a drink of water. Not a good way to die. I'll have to keep this girl here isolated for a while to see if she falls ill." The farmer pats the goat on the side as he tethers her down, and they continue working in silence until all the goats have been checked. They find no further bite marks, though there are plenty of maggot infestations.

~

The next morning, the farmer offers him several days' work around the farm as well as asking for his help in cleaning out the caves where the bats roost. Though Aragorn has felt it is time to head home for a while, he is glad to accept, even if it is a delay. The farmer has been generous to a passing stranger and has treated him better than some around Bree.

**Smells: Soap**

"Soap? Do they even know what it is for?" a slurred voice called out over the noise in the Pony's common room. Laughter followed.

Hunthor's expression as he glared at the group of locals was murderous. I tightly gripped his left arm to stop him before he caused trouble. "It's only Harry Goatleaf. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"Lighten up," I said the next day as we stopped to eat. "You're not still sulking about last night, are you?"

"No," Hunthor muttered, then burst out, "Why does Butterbur scent his soap like that? I smell like a damnable cherry tree!"

**Horror: psychological horror**

The Black Riders bear down on us, on _me_. I stand still, frozen in place, as my eyes meet an unseen gaze under a black hood. I try to dodge the sword slash that sweeps down, but too late.

The blade cuts into my arm, and I drop the torch I am yet holding. I fall to my knees, clutching at the wound with my left hand. There is no blood, only an icy cold that spreads quickly.

As my sight fades, I see the Nazgûl close on the Ringbearer. One leans over to grab him off Asfaloth's back. _No!_

I wake up in a soft bed, heart pounding in my chest. _A dream. Only a dream. Or…?_ Around me there is only darkness, silence. I do not remember what happened after the Nazg… Am I dead? Slain by a Morgul blade? _No, it was a dream. It must be._

As I attempt to sit up, I find I am restrained. I realise that I am not lying in a bed after all, but am chained to a torturer's table.

A presence in my mind, and I recoil, fearing it is the Enemy. Now, someone calls my name, and a hand shakes my arm. I wake up again, but this time it is in my own bedroom in Rivendell, early morning sunlight streaming in through the window. Elladan is sitting by my bedside, watching me anxiously.

"You were caught in a nightmare," he says. "Frodo is safe. You are safe."

**_Aftermath_ **

**Horror: Abandoned ruins**

Elladan had given Aragorn one look and told him he'd see to Roheryn for him. Elrohir had set apart a small area where he was looking after the wounded of the Grey Company, and had given him a look similar to Elladan's, telling him to rest before he fell over. Borlas had everything under control in setting up their camp, though where he'd found even _one_ tent?

There was nothing he could do except stand and look out over the Pelennor. _This is victory?_ It had to be, for all who still stood after battle had ceased were theirs. The bodies of the dead and dying, their own and those of their enemies, lay strewn across the Pelennor like abandoned ruins.

"Captain," Suddenly Beleg stood beside him, along with Hunthor and Gethron. "Permission to look for our fallen comrades out there."

He nodded. "Of course. I…"

Before he could finish his sentence, Beleg shook his head and briefly placed a hand on his shoulder. "No. Aragorn, go and talk to Halmir. He needs you more than the dead do."

Reluctantly, Aragorn gave his agreement and turned around. It was by now close to dark and the camp was lit by torch and fire.  A few of his men were busy preparing a meal, but Aragorn doubted anyone would eat it. Weariness trumped hunger, and the smell of ashes, blood and death that hung over the battlefield took away any appetite that might remain. 

Halmir sat alone, staring into the distance, his father's sword in one hand, a cleaning rag in the other. He didn't look up when Aragorn sat down next to him on what remained of a broken siege engine.

Finally, when Aragorn had almost given up hope that Halmir would speak, the younger man looked at him, raising a hand. "That is Father's blood."

Aragorn moved to put his arm around Halmir's shoulder and enfold his bloodied hand with his own. As he met Halmir's gaze, he was suddenly thankful that Halmir looked more like Dineth than like Halbarad. He doubted he could have borne seeing his friend's face in his son's right then.

Halmir shivered, and looked down again. "Uncle, what can I say to Mother?"

"We spoke last night," – had it _really_ only been one day? Surely, it had been another Age of the World? – "Of fate, and prophecy, and kin. Tell her he thought of her before the end." If any of it were consolation, it was but bitter, but there was naught else he could offer Dineth. Or her eldest son, he thought as Halmir leant his head against his shoulder, desperately trying not to cry.

It felt like relief when a messenger came with word from Gandalf that he, and his healing skills, were needed in the White City. Healing of wounds, he might achieve, but grief was beyond anyone's skill to heal.

**_Isengard, in the spring of the year_ **

**Horror: Footsteps and whispers  
Relationship: Death of a loved one  
Horror: Mazes and labyrinths**

AU - This story is set in my fluffy-wishfulfillment-verse

**March FA 01 — Isengard & March TA 3019 — the Paths of the Dead**

The Dark Door into the mountain loomed before him. Aragorn was frozen in place. They had to pass it, but to move against that almost tangible wall of fear… A sop to his courage, a glance revealed that all — except Legolas — were similarly afflicted, even his brothers.

Suddenly Halbarad spoke. "This is an evil door, and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless, but no horse will enter."

~-~

Whatever brought this on, Aragorn _knows_ he is dreaming. He _knows_ this is a nightmare. And yet, he can only go along with reliving his first passage of the Paths.

Perhaps he shouldn't have come here through the Paths, even if the Dead no longer haunt them. It _is_ the quickest cut through the mountains when coming from Dol Amroth, though. Or perhaps Isengard itself affects him. The tower contains many things, not just the treasures hoarded by Saruman, but other, darker secrets as well.

Belowground lies a veritable labyrinth of corridors and chambers, some clearly part of the original construction, others more recent. Several chambers hold rows of bodies chained to the wall, some mummified in the dry air, some reduced to a pile of bones, all covered in mould after the flooding of the valley by the Ents. All that are recognisable are the remains of women, and by the dark strands of hair that are found, likely Dunlending. It does not take a great leap of imagination to conclude that these were the women used in Saruman's half-Orc breeding programme.

~-~

Even as the truth of prophecy in his kinsman's words pierced Aragorn — knowing that he is dreaming does nothing to soften the shock — he steeled himself for what lay ahead. "But we must go in, and therefore the horses must go too. For if ever we come through this darkness, many leagues lie beyond, and every hour that is lost there will bring the triumph of Sauron nearer. Follow me!"

~-~

The part of him that is anchored in the present counts them as they go in, those that yet live and those that have fallen both. Halbarad first, Halmir close behind him, followed by Borlas, Hunthor, Beleg, all of the Grey Company, and Elladan and Elrohir bringing up the rear but for Legolas and Gimli.

~-~

Inside, the feeling of fear was no less paralysing for all that they _were_ moving. The torches Aragorn had brought did little to alleviate the darkness that pressed down on them. Inevitably he thought of Moria, both the crossing with the Fellowship and his long-ago foray with Halbarad. Those, too, had been dark passages, but there the threat had been different; there was no terror in the dark itself.

Now, the fear that before had attempted to keep them out crept inside a man's soul, whispering softly in strange words. Yet Aragorn knew what they spoke of; dying alone in the dark, forever joining the Dead on the Paths. Behind them, footsteps followed, softly, almost on the edge of hearing, but enough to know that, _yes, the Dead were following_.

~-~

He knows what to expect next, though time in the dream is unreliable — or perhaps memory plays him false — for the moment seems to come much sooner than it had done in reality.

~-~

After some time, they entered a large cave, and as Aragorn raised his torch in the hope of seeing more, a sudden gleam of light on metal drew him. Close to the wall of the cave a body was lying. Clad in the garb of the Grey Company, the man lay face-down, one desiccated hand reaching towards the stone door before him.

~-~

 _No_ , Aragorn thinks, puzzled, _this is not what happened!_ But the dream inexorably draws him back in.

~-~

Aragorn handed his torch to Elrohir who had followed closely behind, and knelt down next to the dead man. Slowly, he reached to turn him over, and gasped in shock as he recognised the face before him, marked as it was by death and long years in the dry air of this cave. _Halbarad. No!_ Aragorn sprang to his feet as suddenly all went dark. It was dark enough that he might as well be blind, and he silently cursed at himself for handing his torch to Elrohir.

~-~

That last dream thought makes so little sense that Aragorn can only laugh at it, and that seems to be enough to allow him to wake up. Shaken, he rises from the bed and grabs a cloak, quickly heading outside. It is still dark, and the only ones awake in their camp are the guards. He raises a hand in greeting as one sentry notices him. He needs fresh air, and to stand underneath the stars for a while. By the time he feels he can go back to sleep without being returned to the nightmare the sky is starting to lighten in the East.

It is perhaps unavoidable that he oversleeps in the morning, and he is woken up with the news that there is a message for him. He quickly dresses, and one of the sentries enters.

"My lord. The Steward should be here in less than an hour."

He thanks the man and instructs him to show the Steward in as soon as he arrives.

~-~

"I expected you days ago. What took you so long?" He attempts to sound stern, but knows the attempt is doomed.

"Ordering _your_ kingdom, if you please, my lord Elessar." The words are delivered with a grin, taking any sting from them. In a slightly more serious tone, "Your visit to Edoras did go well?"

"I changed my plans. As I started from Dol Amroth, it made better sense to come here first and visit Éomer on the way back to Minas Tirith."

A searching look and a drawn-out pause. "You came here _directly_ from Dol Amroth… The Paths?"

He only nods in confirmation. Changing the topic, he asks, "How fares the North Kingdom?"

"Well enough," Halbarad replies, "Though there are still many Orcs in the Misty Mountains and the Rangers need to patrol more after so many Elves left with Elrond. Elladan and Elrohir send their greetings, and want to let you know they'll travel south later in the year."

Aragorn smiles at the latter news. He decides they will discuss Arnor later. He is still shaken from his dream, and would rather first speak of personal matters before they return to their duties. "And how fare you?"

"Well enough," Halbarad repeats, but from his expression Aragorn knows life is much better than 'well enough'. Halbarad goes on. "Halmir finally married Lossiel last month, and he wants to know if your offer of a place in your guard in Minas Tirith is still open. He'd like to spend a few years there."

"Yes, if you can spare him." Aragorn replies.

"I want him to take on the captaincy of the Grey Company, but he believes he is not yet ready. Daeron is willing to continue leading the Grey Company, and he's a good captain, so yes, I can spare Halmir for now. And Haldan has his Ranger star," Halbarad goes on, beaming with paternal pride, "Dineth is torn between worrying about him and being pleased that I am in Caras Dirnen so much more than before."

Life is good to his kinsman then, Aragorn concludes. Halbarad is observing him intently, and asks, "But what about you? There seems to be a darkness weighing on your mind."

Aragorn sighs. Halbarad knows him too well, and he has as much chance to dissemble to him as to his brothers. "I had a bad dream last night, and its shadow is proving difficult to shake off. But I'd rather not talk about it."

"As you wish," Halbarad replies, adding sternly, "For now." He goes on to ask, "Then how is your exploration of Isengard going?"

"I've learned much about the tower, and about Saruman's mind," Aragorn says, "And many treasures will be returned to Rohan and elsewhere as a result. But there are things I must show you."

Halbarad follows him into the tower and the main chamber. "What is it?" he asks as he sees the pile of treasure that lies in the middle of the chamber.

"It's not here," Aragorn answers. "Down this corridor, there is a hidden door that would not have been discovered but for Gimli's aid. Come, follow me."

Now that he knows the door's secret, Aragorn opens it easily. "The first thing we found in here is this," and he holds out a small case of gold on a thin chain. "I think Saruman had this made to hold the One Ring, should he ever have gotten hold of it."

Halbarad's expression is troubled, but he says nothing.

"The second," Aragorn reaches up to take something from its shelf, "Is this. The first Elendilmir." They watch in reverent silence as the jewel seems almost to glow even in the faint light of the corridor.

"The _original_ Elendilmir?" Halbarad asks after a while. "But… wasn't that lost with Isildur when he fell?"

"Yes," Aragorn says, "But it appears Saruman found it."

"Then he must have found Isildur's body as well," Halbarad says.

"So I think also, but no remains were found in here. I fear he discarded them. Worse was done here, though," and he tells Halbarad of the dungeons he found in the labyrinth of corridors under the tower.

~-~

That evening, after a day of talking politics and exploring the tower, Aragorn sits talking with Halbarad and Gimli on a low bench outside his tent.

"Do you know what the hobbits call the houses that were built to replace Bagshot Row in Hobbiton after the Troubles?" Gimli says.

From the grin on his face, it's clear to Aragorn that Halbarad knows the answer, but his kinsman says nothing. "No, but do tell me," Aragorn replies to Gimli.

"Well, officially it's called New Row, but in Bywater they call it Sharkey's End."

They all laugh out loud, though Halbarad mutters darkly that even that is more honour than the wizard deserves.

= = = =

**A/N**

The conversation between Aragorn and Halbarad is quoted from _The Return of the King_ — _The Passing of the Grey Company_ , which I also used for the description of the Paths of the Dead. Further sources for this chapter are _Unfinished Tales_ — _The Disaster of the Gladden Fields_ , and _The Return of the King_ — _The Grey Havens_.

The first story in the fluffy-wishfulfillment-verse is _Dark is the Path_


	5. Odds and Elves

**Smells: fish  
Textures: glassy  
Talents and skills: sailing  
Smells: petrichor**  
  
Late in the Second Age  
  


_There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,  
And my spirit is crying for leaving._  
Led Zeppelin – Stairway to Heaven

It's a rare day when the ocean is this quiet, its glassy surface almost as smooth and still as a mirror.

I walk up to the line of the tide, and wiggle my toes in the sand, enjoying the feeling of the sluggish waters washing over my feet. We dwelt near Nenuial at the beginning of this Age of the World, and it has been that long since I saw a body of water even that large. Yet compared to Belegaer, any lake is a mere puddle.

I remember – I cannot help remembering – sitting on the quai at Alqualondë, the foam-topped waves gleaming softly in the harbour's lights. I remember going sailing with my Telerin kin, and the smell – and the taste! – of fish frying over an open fire on the beach after.

Resolutely, I turn my back on the sea, and walk back towards the green hills, the gentle smell of rain on the dusty earth a balm to the heart.

**Of the sea: waves  
Smells: pine trees  
Horror: wraiths, wights and ghosts  
Smells: grass**

Since the first time he saw the shore, and breathed the sea air in the dark under the stars, he has hardly ever been away from the sea and the soft murmur of the waves. Some may love the sharp scent of the tall pines of long-ago Dorthonion, or the homely smell of fresh-cut grass, but he has lost his heart to the salt tang of the sea.

Now though, the restless waters stink of the death of Elenna-nórë and all on it. Great waves bring witness of it, and he hears the ghosts of Númenor in the whispering sea.

**Talents and Skills: Rope-making**

Even in the gloomy tension of the day that the Fellowship left, Galadriel smiled when she heard of Samwise's enthusiastic reaction to the rope that had been put in the Fellowship's boats. _He too is a jewel among hobbits, as much as Frodo. May our hopes come to fruition, little gardener, and may you have your chance to learn what the Elves can teach you of rope-craft. Creating anything of beauty is worthy, and there is as much worth in these simple skills as there is in bright jewels or seeing-stones, or any of the crafts of the proud Noldor._

**Talents and skills: gardening**

After the meeting with Fangorn, Galadriel was in a pensive mood. _The Sindar are like the Ents, for they do not seek mastery, and love wandering and the freedom of wild things. The Noldor are like the Entwives, desiring ordered gardens arranged to their own wishes._

 _Despite their differences, the Ents believe they and the Entwives will meet again_ – she glanced at her own Silver Tree, dreading their impending parting. One day he too would have enough of the wild, and join her again. _Or will he?_ She hoped she would not have to wait as long as the Ents.

**Languages - Dunlending**

"Perhaps you know this, Grandfather," Elladan said as he and Merry approached Celeborn.

"What about Dunlendish?" Merry asked immediately. "Elladan has been helping me with my book about Rohan, and I know about many words in the Shire and in Rohirric being the same because both our people come from Rhovanion, and about Westron coming from Adûnaic. But Dunlendish isn't like _any_ of them, except for a few loanwords. So where does it come from? Is it related to the languages of the Easterlings?"

Celeborn pursed his lips and steepled his fingers, collecting his thoughts. Merry was becoming quite the scholar, and he was used to Merry's visits to Imladris turning into a constant barrage of questions, but he was scarcely an expert on Mannish languages. He did know the answer though, he realised, and either Elladan or Elrohir should have remembered it as well.

"No," he finally answered, "Dunlendish isn't an Easterling language. You know about the three peoples of the Edain?"

Merry started to shake his head, but suddenly said, "Oh wait, of course. The House of Bëor, the House of Hador, and the House of Haleth!"

"True," Celeborn said. "When they travelled to Beleriand, many people stayed behind. Many of the people of Hador's house stayed in Rhovanion, and they are the ancestors of the Rohirrim." Merry nodded as Celeborn paused. "But there were also many of Haleth's people who didn't cross into Beleriand, and through all the years that lie between, the Dunlendings and their language descend from them."

**Talents and Skills: Baking  
Textures: Pebbled  
Relationship: Interracial marriage  
Also used for the March 2012 Nuzgûl of the Month at HASA ("Death: Write a story where Arwen discusses the thought of dying with one other person")**

Excited, Arwen walked towards the rooms within the King's House where her brothers were staying. They had arrived the night before, and she had not yet seen them.

"It's been too long," Elladan said as he opened the door to her knock. "We've missed you."

"No need to ask whether you're happy," Elrohir added, "You look well, sister."

She smiled and without thinking moved one hand to her abdomen as she closed the small distance between her and her brothers to embrace them. Elrohir, noticing the movement, looked her over appraisingly and repeated with a smile, "You look well, sister."

\---

Not long after, they were walking in a garden between the Citadel's wall and the King's House. It was early; the only sound came from the pebbled path softly crunching underfoot.

From somewhere in the city, Arwen smelled freshly baked bread. Somehow it brought to mind the time Bilbo had come to the kitchens in Imladris to investigate the smell of bread baking in the afternoon. When he found her and the other Yavannildi making lembas, he was most interested in all that she told him; he had undoubtedly dedicated a chapter in one of his books to the subject.  

\---

"What is it?" Elladan asked when he realised she was lost in thought.

"I suddenly thought of Bilbo," she said. "I wonder if he still lives. He was old even when he sailed."

"If he does, he is probably pestering all our kin for details of the First Age as we speak," Elladan replied.

Arwen's reply was a wistful smile, evoking a sharp look from Elladan as he stopped to face her. She met his gaze without hesitation to answer his unspoken question. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that she might be less certain when the debt finally came due.  

\---

Now that she was with child, there was an immediacy, a _reality,_ to the idea of her own death that there had never been before, not even after Choosing. She could never regret loving Estel, and she hoped that when death came to them, she would be able to face it without fear.  

Hard as it was to keep her glance steady, there was naught that she could say to her brothers on this. She had Chosen one path and they the other.

Finally, Elladan lowered his gaze and sighed.

"Have you named him yet?" he asked.

"Eldarion," she answered.


End file.
